


walk in bitter rain

by kim_onka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama & Romance, Elf/Human Relationship(s), F/M, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Relationship(s), Romance, Unfinished Tales, me attempting romance - take warning, so many tags for the same thing really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 15:59:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4355261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim_onka/pseuds/kim_onka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No-one sees her leave. // A take at Mithrellas the Elven-lady and Imrazôr the Númenórean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	walk in bitter rain

**Author's Note:**

> I had been planning this for ages and ended up writing it in nearly record time. Consistency is not my strong point.  
> Title from the song "In Dreams" from "The Lord of the Rings" soundtrack, because I have always wanted to use it.  
> Enjoy.
> 
> EDIT: Now available as an interactive story (not my doing, but I absolutely recommend it) at http://media.textadventures.co.uk/games/nw2XIp0mbk6v99G2FZrXUA/index.html

_Mithrellas’ footsteps fall lightly upon the hard floor of the corridor; in her grey dress she is a shadow amongst shadows, stealing through the predawn gloom._

_No-one sees her leave._

.

The halls of Imrazôr Númenórean are vast and beautiful, their elegance carved from stone and wood and metal. The halls are different to anywhere Mithrellas has lived, yet their hospitality is a refuge for her exhaustion and her sense of loss.

She is lost, torn away from her people and her lady.

She has nowhere to go.

So here she remains, in the halls of Men, walking through corridors of stone and listening to the echoes of their strange music scattered throughout the chambers; answering polite, well-meant inquiries and acquainting herself with the daily lives and grand histories of Edain.

Trying, and failing, not to feel estranged.

.

The first time she disappears, she has only been here for several weeks.

She slips away in the night, urged by the longing to see the vastness of the black sky riddled with Varda’s stars and have no ceiling above her head save the one crafted by Yavanna; standing among the trees, she wonders what became of Nimrodel and the companions she lost.

She sits on the forest floor and breathes in deeply, and recalls they manner in which Imrazôr has looked at her, the meaningful notes in his voice and the stirring in her heart upon hearing his greetings.

.

It is said, in stories of old, that those who dwelt in the Blessed Realm surpass those who remained in Endor even as they in turn surpass the mortals; and the Númenóreans, in whom flows the blood of Kalaquendi and of a Maia, are above regular Men.

What does this make them, the two of them?

Alien.

They are alien to one another, and it is no story of old; there is no doom to guide her footsteps, or his. What, then, is she to do?

.

She returns the next day.

‘Lady Mithrellas,’ Imrazôr greets her, smiling through the subtly concealed worry.

‘Lord Imrazôr,’ she answers, at once abashed and gladdened.

‘It is a relief to see you have not left our humble hospitality for good, lady.’

‘I would not have left without expressing my thanks for the aid you offered me, lord. I am not ungrateful,’ she says, but the words, however true, sound false to her own ears.

Imrazôr regards her quizzically, a smile playing on his lips.

‘Am I to assume that now you have expressed your thanks, you intend to vanish for good?’

Mithrellas opens her mouth to answer, and hesitates.

‘Lady,’ he says gently, stepping closer, ‘you are my guest. Say the word, and much as your presence lightens the household, you shall be escorted to anywhere you desire within Endor. You need not escape from me in the dark of the night, like a prisoner.’

Mithrellas looks into his eyes, warm and proud and sincere, and says nothing.

She retreats to her rooms.

.

It _is_ there, palpable and enticing and impossible to ignore; it may, perhaps, have the shapes of love.

And underneath, the ever-accompanying awareness which may, perhaps, have the shapes of fear.

.

Mithrellas tells him of Nimrodel, and wonders.

This was the story of love worthy of earlier ages, when the world was younger and hearts truer; and yet, it need not have been such; it could have been happy instead.

‘Lord Imrazôr,’ she says, ‘if there was a lady you loved and wished to wed, but who demanded you abandoned your people and left with her, what would be your answer?’

‘A tough request, is it not, to choose between loyalty and love? But I have a duty to the people I lead, and affairs of the heart must not come before that responsibility.’

Mithrellas nods, half to herself.

Is it love, to ask for everything, when not freely offered? Is it love, not to see the loved one but the faults of his people?

It may still be.

‘Would request such, lady, from one who loved you?’ Imrazôr asks quietly, and Mithrellas starts, for it is the first time _it_ is alluded to, albeit indirectly; she looks away.

‘No,’ she says. ‘I would not.’

They sit in silence for a while, a silence which is suddenly heated and dense, until, at length, Imrazôr speaks.

‘Do you wish to return to your own?‘

She shakes her head. She is lost. Where would she return to?

She stays.

.

At times, Mithrellas feels angry.

She was Nimrodel’s companion, a follower through a tale she expected to hear sung of in years to come; and now she here she is, by herself, caught in another story, one she does not understand.

Old songs and stories are ringing in her ears, and she strives to ignore them and see him, see Imrazôr, as he is, discarding expectations.

And he is mortal.

.

There is another story, older than others; and it tells of regret. She wishes such regret on neither of them.

.

‘Lady Mithrellas,’ he says, gently taking her hand in his; the gesture is disarmingly hesitant, and his honest face betrays solemnity. ‘I wish to court you.’

Such simple words.

She has expected it, or very nearly has; she has known, even if she has not fully realized; and yet, voiced, it carries incomparably more weight than the game of smiles and glances they have been playing. More implications.

Leaves whisper on the trees above them, suddenly very loud; Mithrellas averts her eyes, unable to bear his earnest gaze on her.

‘Never has my house seemed brighter to my eyes than it does now, when it is host to you,’ he says into her quiet. ‘It would be a joy to me if you called it home, and greater still if you were the lady of it, for the thought of parting with you fills my heart with grief. Tell me what the customs of your people demand of me, and I shall obey, but answer me when I ask you: Could you love me, Mithrellas? May I hope?’

She thinks she could; she _knows_ she could; and suddenly, she is afraid, because, for all her efforts, what looms in her mind is the impassable wedge between them, too glaringly real to mention.

‘I am gratified, lord Imrazôr,’ she says, at length regaining her voice.

Then she raises her eyes to look him fully in the face; something breaks in her at the sight, and she feels, with all strength, that she does not want to heed the wedge, nor wait for a doom to guide her; she feels like laughing out loud, for suddenly she is certain.

‘Yes,’ she says, with a smile. ‘Yes. You may hope.’

.

She disappears again after this, and when she returns, she finds Imrazôr awaiting her.

It is the loveliest feeling.

.

Imrazôr tells her of Númenór, and she wonders.

‘The desire for endless life was the undoing of my people, and I know better than to yield to it,’ he says. ’Yet now I find myself wishing I could, if only to spare you grief.’

‘Time will come for my grief,’ she says. ‘Is it the way of Men to waste their few years in the world anticipating their future misery?’

‘Hear me, Mithrellas.’ She looks at him expectantly, and after a moment, he continues. ‘After I pass over, you need not remain alone forever.’

She starts, and stares at him in incomprehension.

‘My kind marry once.’

‘Your kind is married once,’ he corrects. ‘My kind is married until death.’

‘What are you saying, Imrazôr?’

‘Consider, Mithrellas: if you wed an elf and he is slain, you are bound to him still, because his fëa has not left the world, and the bond is of this world. But when I die and leave the circles of Arda, does the bond extend this far, or are you free of me, in fëa as in hröa?’

‘Speak not of such things,’ she protests, feeling faint. ‘You would have me forge a bond and consider its breaking? If I wanted to be free of you, I should not wed you; and if we are wed, we shall be wed truly.’

‘As you wish,’ he concedes, but there is sadness in his eyes and Mithrellas perceives unease; she, too, has the impression that something shifted in the wrong direction, and the impression chafes.

.

Soon, they are wed.

Mithrellas is happy; she loves him, and she is happy.

She looks at him every day and reminds herself of this.

.

She still vanishes, at times.

.

There comes a day when Imrazôr rides away, called forth by his duty; before he leaves, he pleads with her not to disappear while he is absent.

‘Please, Mithrellas. I need to know that when I return, you will be here. Without you, the house is empty, and no-one wishes to find their house empty after a journey.’

‘I will be here,’ she says, because she, too, could hardly bear it if Imrazôr were not there upon her return; and he always has been.

And so Mithrellas remains behind, and the halls are cold and empty in the absence of her husband; she sits in their rooms and sings her own songs, the songs of her people, which tell of longing.

She misses him.

She loves him.

When he returns, it is as if a veil is lifted from the household, and she welcomes him with joy.

‘Now I know,’ Imrazôr says, moving to embrace her, ‘that I am truly home.’

And so does Mithrellas.

.

There is more to it.

She feels anchored in time, when she is with him. Alive.

When he is with her.

While he is with her.

.

She slips away before he wakes.

She is out there, standing in the light rain, when she realizes she is with child.

.

Her little son is beautiful.

At this point, it is difficult to say whether Galador looks more like a Man or an Elf; but Mithrellas observes him closely, traces the curve of his ear, looks deep into his drowsy eyes.

Listens to the beating of his small heart.

‘Mithrellas.’

Imrazôr stands beside her, his hand on her back, stroking her in a soothing motion.

‘I cannot stop thinking,’ she whispers, ‘that he is dying. He is newborn, and already dying.’

There is a silence.

Her husband moves to embrace her and her – their – _his_ son, and holds them close.

‘He is – Mithrellas, he is alive. He is alive now.’

‘And yet he is dying this very moment, as you are.’

‘You have always known that.’

‘Yes. I have.’

‘I am sorry,’ Imrazôr says finally, when it is clear Mithrellas has nothing to add.

‘No! No. Do not be sorry. That I cannot stand.’

.

She loves him.

She chose this.

He had better not _dare_ be sorry.

.

At times she wonders if she can ever go back to her people, once here, with him, she has found an anchor.

If, having faced mortality, she can once again face immortality.

When Imrazôr dies.

.

Her daughter is the most charming infant and Mithrellas holds her close, knowing, and cursing the knowledge, that the girl is not an elf.

Not truly hers.

.

Mithrellas watches Imrazôr in his sleep.

The rise and fall of his chest, the restrained movements of his muscles and the slight twitching of his eyes; she knows it by heart.

His sleep makes her uneasy.

One day, she knows, he will not wake.

She rises in a smooth, soundless motion and walks over to where Galador and Gilmith sleep, curled up in their small beds. She watches them, too, for a long while; she touches them lightly, lingeringly, and then steps out into the night.

.

Mithrellas still disappears, from time to time.

.

One day, she does not return.


End file.
